


Now I'm On A Boat

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Boats and Ships, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Gift Fic, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sexual Content, Smut, Swimming, Tourboat Operator Dean, galentines day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 18:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: You’re meant to be cruising the bay with your friend’s Hen’s Day, but it all went sideways and here you are, stuck staring at this yacht…





	Now I'm On A Boat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canadanianspnhunter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=canadanianspnhunter).



> This ticks the freesmut box on my spngenrebingo card. 
> 
> The prompt came from @awhiskerwithawinchester: * uses the greater Las Vegas phone book to whisper behind* what about a fishing boat charter Dean? it was supposed to be a girls day on the ocean with drinks and just a nice get together. but when she gets there none of them show up. Dean sees this since it was his boat and he offers to take her out. Gratuitous smut ensues. I’m not talking a dingy here or the boat from Jaws but a nice boat. * runs away screaming*
> 
> It's written for @canadianspnhunter as her Galentine's Day 2019 fic. So your name is Rose today dear reader. It's my middle name (I wish it'd been my first name) and I think it suits you perfectly.

Right. A Hat that stays on, bag, sunglasses, sunscreen, swimmers, towel, sarong, phone, and shoes… which shoes… one’s with rubber on the sole.  Shit. You’re going to have to change my whole outfit.

How does getting ready make you so late?! You pull into the car park, finding the only park left couldn’t be farther from the pier.  As you walk-walk-run-run-walk across the lot you pull out your phone to double check the address.  (Do boats have addresses?)  Pier 2, No.24.

Then you notice the many messages you’ve missed in the conversation.

Jasmin: Guys! I’m sick!  So sick! There’s no way I can spend the day on a boat…

Zoe: Oh no!  That’s no good bby! But I have something too.  I think you have what Joel’s got.  He spent last night throwing up so I was going to suggest we postpone…

Sarah: I don’t mind rescheduling.

Jasmin: No, this is a 24hr thing I think.  From bloody Bethany.

Elloise: Oh thank god.  So hungover….  

You scroll through the chat as you walk, your steps slowing, and finally get to one that mentions your name.

Sarah: So next Saturday it is.  What about you, Rose? Where you at?

You look down at your feet, a big 24 stencilled onto the boards.  You sigh and slowly start to thumb in “Fine with me girls. I’m free.”  So free.

You look at the boat - a yacht, you think - beside you, a metal gangplank leading to its deck.  The water is still and it’s a bright day, so you decide to have a quick nose around.  Maybe you’ll learn something that will improve next Saturday’s do-over.

It looks gorgeous, as far as yachts go, you guess.  The sail is put away and everything’s white and neat.  You climb from the narrow gangplank down to the steering wheel, big and silver. It’s set into the deck (deck? roof?) so that the deck/roof part is at waist height but you can’t see the edges of the… bow.  Yes, the bow.  The pit has bench seats along the back and sides where you can lean against the safety rail and there’s a kind of path around the edge of the roof. A yard or so in front of the wheel are some steps leading to the cabin beneath.  Window panels interrupt the roof and you think, but for a lack of shade, it would’ve been a perfect day to just lay around on top.

You were under the impression Jasmin was going to drive (captain? steer?) the yacht, the way she talked about it. You wonder if you’ll get in trouble for leaving it here, open all day… would you get in trouble for swanning about below deck, even if it’s docked and-

“Hi!”

Oh shit!  You whirl around and hold your hand up to shade the mid-morning sun.  “Hi! Sorry!  Is this yours?”

“Yeah,” he says, walking up the pier a bit so the glare isn’t behind him.  “I’m Dean.  I thought you guys had cancelled.  I was just coming to close up.”

“Yeah, I-” you look down at your phone and see there’s another message, which you leave for now.  “I just found out.  I was running late.”

He nods, smiles a bit.  “Just trying it out for size?” he comments.

“Ha, yeah, I um.  I wasn’t sure what I should do - it seemed open and I didn’t know if someone should be here or… yeah.”

“It’s no problem,” he assures.  “You ever been out on a boat before?”

“No, not once,” you say, noticing how nice his voice is.  Nice and deep. “I just swim.”

“Wow, okay,” he walks back to the gangplank and talks as he crosses over, “will you be coming back with your friends if they rebook?”

He climbs aboard and steps into the well with you.  It’s probably a safety and efficiency thing that everything is within arm’s reach, but it also means he can’t help but be rather near to you, like within elbow’s reach… and he’s quite tall. And well built.  Good grief he has a lovely face.  He’s wearing grey board shorts and teal button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and if his forearms are anything to go by, he’s very nicely built.  He smiles then, dazzling you stupid with green eyes and perfect features.  

“Yes,” you manage.  Yes.  Then smile back, half at yourself.  

“That’s great,” he says.  “It’s one of those things everyone should do at least once.”

You nod and shrug a little, like _Yeah, seems nice._

You adjust your bag over your shoulder and look over at the gangplank, thinking how you should get going, wondering how you’re going to do it with any grace.

“Would you like to go for a while now?” Dean offers.

You look back at him and he seems a bit surprised at himself, looking out over the water and huffing a breath before kind of shrugging his mouth and waiting for you.

“Are you sure?” you say.  “You were about to get the day off.”

“I was only going to wash the other boat,” he says, “I mean, you could-” then stops short.

Was he going to ask you to help wash his boat… is that a euphemism?

“You’d be saving me from work, actually,” he adds on.

“Um… I can’t pay you.  I can’t afford two-”

“No-no, no I mean for fun,” he assures, shyly, “uh. With me.”

“Okay.” You don’t need the day back. You also cannot keep yourself from wanting him to yourself.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, let’s see if I get seasick.”   _Is saying stupid things an early symptom of seasickness?  Crapping hell._

He grins.  “Okay, I gotta get some things from the office, make a call, and I’ll be back in five.”

“Okay, cool,” you nod.  

“What’s your name?”

“Oh!  Sorry, it’s Rose,” you say and he offers his hand for a shake, which feels perfect.  You watch him cross over the gangplank and hurry down the pier, turning around to check on you and smile as he goes.

On your own, you venture down stairs.  It’s compact and panelled with tan wood, with silver and black appliances and fittings.  There’s a kitchenette to the right, bathroom on the left and a table with bench seats beyond them.  After that, at the bow, is a double bed and you turn to see another two double beds behind you, either side of the stairs.

You look over the kitchen, open and close a few cupboards, looking at the way everything’s kept from rolling around, then check out the fridge.  It’s stocked with cut fruit, nibbles, beer and bubbly.

You hear his footfall on the deck and suddenly he’s filling the doorway.  “That was for today.  You can have some if you like; it’s only going to go back in my fridge.”  

“S’pose we’ll see how long we’re out,” you figure.

“Well, the booking was to spend some time out on the ocean and then head into a little bay,” he explains.  “You wanna do that?”

“Sure,” you say with a smile.  “Sounds good.”

“Okay, that’s at least two hours proper,” he puts a few things in cupboards.  “I know I’m gonna want somethin’.”  He turns and smiles at you, hands on hips.  He’s probably just talking about food.  Both of you swallow.

“This may seem strange,” he begins hesitantly, “but if we’re… uh, you don’t have a boyfriend do you?”

“No!” you say, almost laughing.  “No. Nup.  Nu-uh.”

“Good, okay.  Just… don’t wanna get my head punched in tomorrow.” He walks past you, towrads the stairs.  “Not that I’ll do anything worth a head-punching! God! Just-”

“No, I knew what you meant.” You give your best reassuring smile.

“Okay.”  He pats the air as if to keep that topic where it is, and turns to go.

Up on deck, you find out you have to wear a life-vest while the yacht is moving, and Dean helps you get yours fitted.  “Where’s yours?” you ask.

“Oh, I go down with the ship,” he smiles.

“That’s not funny,” you say, but he doesn’t respond, just keeps adjusting your straps.  “Seriously?”

“Would you feel better if I wore one?”

“Yes,” you tell him, like he’s in trouble.

He sighs, suppressing a smile, and puts his on.  It doesn’t need adjusting at all.  “You were always going to wear one,” you realise.

“Of course,” he grins. “Gotta lead by example.”

You do your best And so you should face and he smiles at the bow.

“You wanna sit on the deck somewhere while we head out?” he offers.

If you say no, you’ll be putting yourself down stairs, alone, for no good reason, or sitting in this alcove with him, which might be awkward because how will you have a conversation over the noise and wind.  Will there be noise and wind? So you move over to the railing around the edge of the yacht, where it comes around the pit, then  climb out and step carefully to the bow wishing against chance that you’re looking elegant along the way.  You find a spot where you can hold on and look back and smile at Dean.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you reply.

The motor starts and you’re moving.  

It takes far longer to get out there, wherever there is, than you expected.  But in that time you decide to push aside doubting your rather eager decision to come out here, lean back on the hard surface and feel the sun above you and the rolling surge of the boat beneath.  Ropes gently creak and the mast looms high into the blue, and you close your eyes to feel it all.

By the time the motor changes tone and begins to slow, you’re much more relaxed.  Soon the engine cuts out completely, and you can hear the water rolling waves from the wake.  It knocks gently on the hull, tinkling ripples and little swishing waves.  You lean back on your hands and see Dean busying about by the steering wheel behind you, then you look back toward land.  It’s a margin of green and white on the horizon, much smaller than you expected.

“How far out are we?” you call.

“About 8 miles.”

So that’s what 8 miles looks like.

“Did you want to have a swim?”

“Uh…” you look at the area around you, seeing nothing remarkable, but also feeling like you could get lost in space.  What would reign you in if you floated away?  Could he pull up beside you?  Are there sharks?!

“That was part of the booking too,” he adds, apparently to reassure you.  “I mean, it’s mostly fishing groups who pick the spot, but they swim here too.  It’s nice.  Fresh.”  He’s encouraging you, smiling kindly.

“Okay,” you say and smile back as best you can.

You make your way back and down stairs to the cabin and choose the bedroom at the bow to change, constantly glancing up at the windows to make sure he’s not there, accidentally getting an eyeful of you sorting straps.

You’ve the cutest black and cherry one-piece, vintage and sexy, although you’re betting Dean’s a string bikini kind of guy.  You make sure everything’s where you want it (the girls tucked up high) grab your towel and take a deep breath.  Dean’s waiting in the steering well when you climb up the stairs.  You give him a quick, shy smile and then step up onto the deck, wondering where you should put your towel.

Dean appears beside you saying, “You can leave that here.”  He takes it from your arm and pitches it into the well, then says “There’s a ladder at the stern,”  and half-smiles at you.  “Watcha waitin’ for?”

“Huh, uuh, yeah.”  You go back the way you came, gingerly finding your feet over the rail and down the short ladder, onto the shallow standing shelves at the rear of the boat.

You don’t dare look behind you, because if he’s watching you’ll botch whatever graceful attempt you might make, and if he’s not you’ll be disappointed.  So you stand on the upper ledge and look out at the moving surface.  It’s open and sparkling, nothing in the water to watch, and there is absolutely no one else here.  Nothing that way, as far as your eyes can see.

You overlap your fingers, and dive - shlooop!  

It feels marvellous, a full body caress and instantly revitalising.  The water threads through your hair and against your scalp, washing away sweat and nerves from tip to toe, and even though you can’t see the bottom you feel like you’re floating on the stuff of earth, amongst life, like you belong here.

You kick your feet up and float on your back, lazily dragging your arms up and down, listening to the water.  It’s so much better than a girly piss-up on a boat.

The surface makes corckely noises around your ears and his voice breaks through the water.  “Whaddaya think?”

Righting yourself, you call back.  “It’s beautiful!!  Feels so good!”

He stands on the boat and grins at you, hands on hips, apparently pleased with your answer.

“Aren’t you going to swim too?”

He thinks a bit and says, “I don’t, usually.”

“Come on.  It’ll feel odd if you don’t.  Like you’re the chauffeur.”

“I _am_ the chauffeur,” he laughs.

“Don’t you like it?” you stir.

“It’s the reason I started the service,” he tells you, and a beat passes between you.

Gently, you encourage him.  “When was the last time you swam?”

Dean looks at you, crooked smile and bitten lip, and shakes his head at the horizon.  He reaches over himself and pulls his shirt off his back (Oh, goodness shit! His body is strong!), and kicks off his shoes (Shit! Very muscled!), then climbs over the rail and dives in off the edge of the boat.

_Jesus.  Jesus was a fisherman.  Jesus knew what the fuck he was doing._

Then you can see the shape of his body. It’s a pale figure breast-stroking under the surface, moving towards you, getting larger, and faster, and certainly making you feel like prey.  On land, you’d hold your ground, but here your flailing is quite natural-looking.

He surfaces just out of reach and flicks the water from his head.  His hair barely moves.

You smile, squinting at the reflections.  “Better?”

“Oh yeah,” he puffs.  It feels like he’s winking at you, but you can’t really tell.  Then he’s ducked under the water like a frikken seal and swum down and up, leaning back and licking the surface with his body, watching his feet flick up in front of him.  When he notices you watching him, he duck-dives hard enough to lift his shoulders clear above the water, and comes at you.  Just when you think he’s going to swim under your legs, he snatches a foot, gives it a solid tug and you jolt down, yelping and kicking up again.  He’s laughing beside you before you can even turn yourself his way.

“Oh, my god.  You’re the eldest in your family aren’t you?”

Dean laughs. “Yes.  But only of two.  And he’s bigger than me!”

The cool of the deeper ocean is starting to get into you and you decide to swim back to the boat.  It’s far enough that you can scold yourself for caring about your form as you make your freestyle strokes, and you duck the last few yards.  Dean catches up in no time and grabs onto the same rung as you.

“So, what’s your favourite part of swimming?”

Now, this would be an odd question, if you didn’t actually have an answer.  “Diving.  I love the sensation of immersion. And the strength.  You?”

“I used to like tumble-turns.  When you get the timing just right and you can push off and rest.”

“Satisfying.”

“Yeah.”

If everyone else were here, this conversation would never have happened.  “Why used to?”

“Well, it’s been awhile since I swam in a pool.  Now I just like lookin’ at my boat.”  He grins, shamelessly proud.

“Yeah?” you laugh.  “What do you like about it?”

“It’s a business my brother and I run, and it’s successful.  I mean, it pays the rent.” He shrugs, pushing off into the water again.  “But it’s fun sometimes, and we have steady business.  I dunno, it’s just a risk that paid off…  Paid off real well.”

“Well, I don’t know you that well, but I am strangely happy for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  Success is nice.”

Somehow Dean can tread water and smile in a way that makes you feel like you’re floating, even when you’re clinging to his boat for dear life.

“Come on, I’ll show you the little bay.”

You nod and turn to the ladder.  The rungs are essentially steel rods, and slippery as all hell, so you spend a fair bit of effort getting your feet effectively balanced and use all your casual grace to climb out of the water and over the rope, which takes longer than you hoped.  This is when you realise that he’s behind you, watching you climb the stairs above him and struggle with a rope.  “This is one of those fun times, huh?  This is fun.”

Dean giggles behind you.  “I’m not looking, I swear.”

“You’re not?!”

“You want me to look?!”

“No!  But you’re you’re supposed to be lying!”  You get your footing on the deck, only slightly goosepimpled in the breeze, and wait for him to climb over, too.  “You didn’t sound like you’re lying.”

“Okay, next time I’ll lie,” he assures you and makes his way back to the well.  You follow him, muttering, “I’m not looking, I swear.”  Which only makes him giggle more so by the time he’s passed you your towel and begun to dry himself, you’re blushing at yourself and your cheek, busying yourself with some very important drying.

Dean heads down the steps before you’re done, calling “Come have some food.”  So you tuck your towel around yourself and follow him.  Time and activity have you ravenous, and you both dig into a fruit platter meant for five.  He pulls out the champagne, eyebrows asking, and you nod.

You brought a sarong!  One mental high five for remembering that and you’ve swapped the towel for something much more complimentary, not that you can do a styling knot or anything, but it’s prettier at least.

“Hey, you heard of Herman Bay?” he asks.

“Nope.  Is it local?”  Cantaloupe makes your words all dribbly.

“Yeah, right round the corner from the port.  No path, cliffs all around.  Boat access only.  You wanna?”

“Yes, please.”

“Sure thing.”  He cracks a beer, grabs a banana before climbing back up to the well and soon the engines rumble to life.

Bubbly in hand, you think to check your messages and find that a conversation that started back when you were boarding has picked up again.  It turns out there’re no spaces next week, only tomorrow, and everyone can do that but they haven’t heard from you.  The last one was from hungover Elloise, full of spent patience. “Rose? Could you please reply so we can figure this out? What the hell happened to you?”

You: “I’m on a boat.  It’s okay, the guy’s alright.”

You send it off and begin to add, “I can do tomorrow, too,” but a scatter-bomb of replies hits you before you can finish it.

Elloise: “Holy shit! You took the trip?”

Sarah: “omg, coz you were there already? I’m so sorry you had to go do that alone!”

Jasmin: “Are you by yourself?  Isn’t it awkward?  Is the guy nice at least?  Did you really have to go?  I have so many questions but you’re okay, right?”

You restart your reply, only to find halfway through that it’ll need even more editing.

Jasmin:  “I can understand that we lost the deposit because of the late cancellation but you’ve gone and spent a booking by yourself, Rose.  It’s so unfair of you to do that when we’re all paying and you’re the only one benefiting.  I didn’t think you were this selfish.  Why would you do that?”

You finish your drink and carefully type in, then reread, then edit, then read aloud, your reply:  “It’s okay, Jaz!  He’s not charging for the trip.  I know we can’t get the deposit back, but he offered to take me out to the see a shorter version of the trip for free.  Really, he’s a nice person.  No one’s paying for me, or paying twice.”  Jasmin can kiss your salty ass.

Minutes later, Jasmin’s replied with a gushing message about how unusual it seemed for you to do that and she hopes you didn’t think she meant… yadda yadda.  It’s Sarah’s separate message of, “Don’t worry.  No one thought you did that.  Jasmin’s being dense. Xo” that reassures you.

How many deep breaths does it take to get yourself relaxed again?  About as many as there are new messages.  You read them fleetingly, only enough to know they can wait for replies.  The boat is slowing and turning, and you need warming up.

The little bay is rustic and sweet.  Azure water fills the curve below the cliffs, the sand pale and soft.  One side is bound by orange sandstone, great shelves of it weathered soft, and the other by dense mangroves.  Small shadows cruise far below, and you notice the light bounce of the water, glittering sparks of sun that make the sea look like treasure.

Behind you, Dean dives in again.  He’s so neat about it you can’t see where he started, only finding him when he climbs onto a shelf of rock, his shoulders strong and square as he pushes out of the water.  Treasure indeed.

“Come over!” he calls, and waits.  He’s dropped a netted bag of stuff by his feet.

There is a style somewhere between incidentally casual and effortlessly elegant, you’re sure, but God knows what that actually is.  So, you chuck your sarong into the well and just do your best to not belly flop into the water while he watches.

How are you to know you remind him of a mermaid?  Sleek and and graceful, and when you come up for air and duck dive once more, he keeps watching and smiles at the sight of you appearing near the ledge, hair slicked back as you push through the surface.

“You need a hand?”

You don’t, but you take it anyway.  “Thank you.”

From the net bag he pulls two snorkel sets and offers one to you.  You both spit into your own panel and fit it on, feeling ever so sexy with your upper lip pushed out.

He collects the net back, shoves it in his pocket.  “I’ve always found swimmingh mbasks to be quite complementary,” he says, all nasally and super earnest, snorkel flapping about.

You giggle at the joke.  “Well, I feel hot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.   _Sexy_.”

“Yeah,” he nods, hands on hips. “Mbe too.” And grins back for a second or two.  “We’re right here.” He points at the water near his feet and just drops back into the blue.  

Sitting on the ledge, you fit the mouthpiece and follow him in.  Under the waterline and along the rock face lay coral and anemones.  Little fish dart about the shelves and you see the edges of things scuttle away as your shape cruises by.  Dean takes your hand to lead you along, squeezing when he points to a crease in the overgrown rock.  He ducks down to touch it and it flinches closed, revealing a good sized clam.  You smile, and feel water seep into the your mask.

Nearby lies a row of anemones, pink and wavy.  You wave the water near one, watching it suck itself in, and the others follow suit, disappearing in seconds.  You take your time, feeling the waves rock you along the surface, and let your gaze creep over the barnacles and snails and all the fractal shapes that play with your depth perception.

Dean squeezes your hand again, pointing at a particularly large fish, and you squeeze back to show you see it, too.  He gestures then, to something across the little bay, and spreads all five fingers, pointing them down - the mangroves, you guess.  The two of you swim all the way over, not stopping at all, just keeping a steady kick to move yourselves along, watching the lolly-coloured scene below you scroll by.

Dean keeps hold of your hand still, checking when you get near that you’re approaching the right spot.  He leads you sideways, then shepherds you into a shallow area so you can see under the roots of the trees. There he helps to hold you still against the lapping waves.  Crabs spider along the sand, little creatures go about their business, and you can look across their world like a god might watch a town below the clouds.  Then Dean leads you further around, lets go of your hand to take your waist and move you under and in front of him.  He points at a dark little cave under a mangrove tree and keeps his aim as you bobble sideways on the water.  After a while a large crab creeps out, furry with growth, but it scuttles away again before you can see it all.  His hand squeezes for the short appearance and you turn to nod at him, careful not to smile so that the water doesn’t get into your mask.

You’ve no idea how much time as passed, but you’re hungry, so when Dean pulls you away, swimming upright to say, “Go back?” behind his snorkel, you nod again.

He takes your hand leads you back, steady and patient as you work your legs and move past the shallows and out toward the boat.

…

“Are you wearing sunscreen?”

Dean pauses his drying, a little surprised at your question.

It’s only occurred to you because you should put on some more.

“Uh, on my face,” he says, towelling off his legs.

“You should have some on your back,” you tell him. It’s become quite warm, even with the windchill of being wet.

“I’ll put my shirt back on later,” he decides, realising it’s where he left it on the deck, towards the bow.

He’s shrugs his chin a little, to finish his answer, and sucks a little time from your mind by smiling directly at you.  It’s one of those searching kind of gazes that’s going to end up in a goofy, shared smile, so you cut it off before your blush kicks in: “I’m starving,” you declare, wrapping your sarong around your waist.  “How are you not hungry all the time from being busy?”

“I can usually eat,” he admits.

“Then you should eat with me ‘cause I’m famished.  There’ll be nothing left if you wait.”  

Oh, really? Says his face, and you tuck your lips and decide that that’s all you’ll say about that.

Down the steps you go.  Dean follows.

You pull out the fruit again and peel back the cling film, offering it to Dean.  He pours a few more drinks and you stand there and eat, your conversation all nods and eyebrows of offering and thanks, absently touching the corner of your mouth for the juice.

Strapped to the wall, in the corner of the counter, is a pump bottle sunscreen.  “Do you want me to do your back?” you ask, since he didn’t get his shirt.

He gets your meaning, nodding as he finishes a piece of pineapple and pulls the bottle from its hold.  He puts it on the counter and smiles at you shyly, turning and waiting.

You hope - really, _really_ hope - that this doesn’t seem like someone throwing herself at a guy, but you also don’t want to miss an opportunity here.  Next time you see him it’ll be with the others.  Bianca with her gorgeous, thick black hair.  Jazmin with her intimidating intellect.  Sarah with her beautiful smile.  It doesn’t matter if they have partners or not; you fear you’ll suffer by comparison.  So while you’ve got him to yourself, you want him to know he could have you to himself, too.

You pump a generous amount of cream onto your hand and share it between your palms.  He’s broad in the shoulders, softly muscular, and it’s easy to run your hands across his back - spread, spread, push, and rub in circles.  You smear it across like wing bones, down the hills beside his spine, around the edges to his waist, and up to his hairline where your fingers have to do the detail.  You can hear him smirk when you fiddle with the tops of his ears, and he holds the benchtop to brace himself, giving up a short grunt when you massage the planes between his arms.  “Oh man, don’t tease.”

“You’re sore?”

“Didn’t think I was…”

A bit more cream and you’ve covered his shoulders, and down his arms some, and with what’s left you make sure the sides of his neck, around his collarbones are done well, too.

“You want me to do you?” he offers.

“Yes, please.”

He turns back, reaching for the cream, and now it’s your turn to feel shy, or apprehensive.

His hands are big and warm, and since you’re wearing a halter neck it takes no time at all for him to cover your upper back, but he tries to take it slow, dragging his palms down the crest of your shoulders, and all the way down to your elbows.

“Will this stay up if you undo the strap?” He taps the clasp of your bathers and you nod, undoing it so he can get to the skin.  “Why aren’t you wearing a bikini?”  You can feel his breath on your shoulder as he rubs areas he’s already done.

“Um, why should I be wearing a bikini?”

“Just seems like every woman who goes on a yacht needs to wear a bikini and sunbake.  You know, take advantage of the weather, show off.”  He steps a little closer.

“Oh, well, I um-” Truth is, your bikini is in your bag.  You tend to bring it to every occasion, in case you should ever feel brave enough to wear it.  “My bikini needs replacing.”  It doesn’t.  You love it.  “It’s shabby and old.”  Tag’s still attached.

“Well, that’s a pity,” he says, and he sighs as he stops rubbing, his fingertips so light on your arms you hardly know they’re there.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, then I could do the rest of your back,” he says, close enough for you to feel the bass of his voice. “And your stomach.”  He does up the clasp of the halterneck, then his fingers drop to your waist, venturing around as he shifts closer, to press you against him. You tilt your head enough to see him behind you, just in the corner of your vision, as he leans down and puts his lips on your neck.  “This okay?”

You slip your fingers over his, curling into his body.  Your damp swimsuit still cools you, his chest scalding against your back. His arms soon wrap around you properly as he leans far enough to kiss the corner of your jaw, murmuring, “Taste better than sunscreen.”

Feels better than the sea.

“Hmm.”

There’s the hush of breath beside you, his skin almost smooth against yours as you’re still warming, and he reaches around, sliding his fingers up your chin to tip your head back and kiss under your jaw.

Dean pulls away, turning you to face him and he’s smiling gently, grazing his knuckles over your cheek as you watch each other’s lips come closer, your hand hooking over his neck, and he tastes amazing - sea salt, sweat salt, pineapple sharp and tongue sweet.

He pulls away, smiling more, tilts the other way and kisses you again, open, licking, tongues melting between you and it’s all fresh and healthy.

Just the feeling of someone pulling you to them makes the back of your calves tingle, and for a moment you really do wish you had a bikini top so you could feel more of his skin on yours.  It’s starting to goosepimple, your fingertips catching on the texture over his ribs.  He lets his hands find your waist too, and starts to slide them upwards.

He’s so slow about it, you know he’s letting you call the shots, but there’s nothing you want more right now than that delicious contrast of his hot palm against your chilled breast.  And it’s just as you’d hoped, so warm you lean into it, encouraging him to gather and hold the heft of it.

Dean swipes his thumb back and forth over a nipple, smiling through the kiss when you twitch at the sensation. But you lean more, inviting it, slipping your fingers into his hair when he obliges and sighing in delight.

“I don’t suppose,” you mumble, “it’d be the done thing to go too far with this on a first cruise.”

“Well, I’ve never been one to tell a lady what she’s allowed to have.” Dean starts talking into your cheek, then your neck, pulling you against himself.  “I like you a lot.  So, it’s up to you.”

“…Kissing is nice.”  You have to get back to land with this guy, so you’re not sure you want to find out anything more is a bad idea.  “We can kiss.  I guess.”

“Kissing is very nice,” he agrees.  When Dean leans back to look at you, he’s half-smiling and drinking in the colour of your lips.  “Kissing you is nice.  Let’s do that.”

The boat begins to tilt and rock, some far away vessel having sent some rolls your way. It makes Dean grab the benchtop beside you and shift his feet, watching his weight and shape against you.

“Have you done this before?”

“No,” he confesses. “I haven’t even gone swimming on the job before.  But this isn’t a job, remember.  The booking was cancelled.”

“Never brought a girl out to the water to flirt and… swim?”

He smirks knowingly. “Only my ex, and she didn’t much care for the water.”

Although disliking the water sounds possible, dating this particular tour boat operator and not getting into the water with him sounds silly. Apparently your face shows your thoughts.

“She didn’t like getting wet,” he explains.

“But she would’ve got to get wet with you… I don’t understand her.”

Dean chuckles and looks down at you again, letting the sway of the boat draw him back and forth.  “Well, I’ve loved getting wet with you.”  On the next rock he leans again, locking lips and holding you there.  It’s a proper kiss, with giving lips and talking tongues.  He leans over you, as if to tell you something with it, and you lose seconds while you follow his lead and let him kiss you back to the benchtop, then back to last week.

By the time he lets up, you feel the boat may have drifted out to sea.

Everything rocks again some more, enough to make you shift your feet and adjust, but Dean keeps you close.  So close, in fact, you can feel his body thinking of more than merely kissing.  It’s inspiring, to say the least, and you steal a discreet side-to-side grind against him.

He says nothing, but his hands squeeze where they are, and he moves you to do it again, a little do-se-do.

You glance up, feeling caught, but Dean’s smile is friendly, happy, because nice things feel nice, suggesting no presumption of what else you could do.

“Are your friends booking again for tomorrow?” he asks, low and private.

“Yeah, looks like.”  With his weight behind it, his erection is starting to get uncomfortable against you.

“I’m not working tomorrow, my brother is, but…  I could come along if you’re interested in seeing me again.”

“Seriously?  You want to date me?”

“Yeah.”  He’s grinning, a hopeful blush giving him away.  “You’re the nicest, loveliest- I haven’t been this attracted to someone in a while.  I’d really like to date you.  So if we’re going to see each other again, there’s no rush.” He takes a deep breath, lets his eyes drop down to your swimsuit again.  And his.  “I mean, obviously I’d be okay with rushing-”

“Aren’t those shorts uncomfortable?”  You’re grinning helplessly.

“Yes, very.  Isn’t your swimsuit cold?”

“Yes. And I’m very attracted to you, too.”  This time you kiss him, you really kiss him, and every hesitation you had is thrown to the sharks.  Your hands grab, your brow furrows, you nearly wrap a leg around his.  “I would love for you to be here tomorrow,” you tell him.  “And, honestly, let’s just-”  Each rock is only 30% boat at this stage.  “Let’s- We could-”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, grinning his lips against yours.  That halterneck clasp is undone before you can say Ahoy! And Dean lays a warm palm over your neck, spidering his fingers into your hair.

“Do you um,” he mumbles, letting the boat suggest you away from the bench.  “We have- behind me-”

“Is that a bedroom?” you hold onto his waist and walk with him to the uneven rhythm of boat, forwards, then sideways, forwards again.

“It’s a bed.  Probably safer to be lying down right now.”

You pull your swimsuit down by the neck straps and Dean’s hands go straight to your breasts, warming, holding, possibly guiding you towards him, and he backs up to the knee-high mattress at the stern (yes, definitely the right name).  He sits down, pulls on your waist and kisses your bust, his smooth warm tongue soothing the chill of each breast.

You watch your fingers drive through his sun-bleached hair, watch him lick and kiss at you, and watch him look up and smile before reaching for another kiss.

He peels your bathers south, tugs them all the way to the carpet, and holds your hips so you can step out of them.  Then you step back, pulling on his arms so he can get his shorts off, too.  He’s shy, a gorgeous rose in his cheeks, and you laugh with him at how you’re both being so unusually forward with each other.

He’s naked when he pulls you back to him, burning against your belly, and your hands catch on the damp skin of his bottom making the cheeks shudder when you try to warm him up, too.  More giggles, more kissing, more grabbing hold of the wall, and he’s leaning back, asking you with his hands to come along.  Soon, you’re chest to chest on your sides, feeling the hot hook of his hand behind your knee.

“Whaddya wanna do?” Dean’s gaze trickles down, looking at the curves of you, where your hair meets his, and pulls you back for a kiss before you can decide. He has beautiful eyes, sea green, with long lashes, and watching him look at you is entirely distracting this close up.

“You feel like-” he murmurs around your lips, pushing you backwards with the rock of the sea.  “Your skin is so cold, still.” He kisses across your cheek and to your shoulder, getting a look at his own hand tripping over your goosebumps.  “Is anywhere warm on you?”

It’s a throw-away question, but instantly he thinks of a good answer - just as you do - looking into your eyes to see what you think, distracted by you chewing your lip because, honestly, where you want him isn’t just warm.

“I so wanna date you.” He says it through his teeth.

“How about… what if,” you say carefully, “tomorrow is maybe a date.  Or we have like a real date, at some point.  With people and conversations and everything. And we can be romantic… when we date.”

Dean nods as though this is ought to be obvious.

“And today,” you shrug, “we just… do what we want to do.”

That he understands, and his nodding pauses.  “Yeah?”

“Yes.”  You bite your lips together.  “Do you have a condom?”

“They’re complimentary with the boat.”  Dean rolls backwards and fishes one out of a little wall pocket, lube too.

“Seriously?!”

“People do a lot of fucking on these things.”  He kisses away your giggles and lays himself over you, warming and rolling, laying fat kisses down your neck and along your shoulder as if to get the salt off your skin.  You use the time to feel him all over, map the lovely curves and planes of his back and sides as they warm up.  “Hey,” he asks, getting his lips behind your ear, “can I kiss you down there?”

“Below deck?”

“Huh. Yeah.”

“Won’t it be all salty and strange?”

Dean stops and lifts his head, looking at you with the flattest smirk you’ve ever seen.  “Yeah, I wanna see. Won’t be time for me to do this tomorrow.”

Not that you have any real objections, but, “Really?”

“Really.” And with that, he disappears.

And he doesn’t just taste; he samples every damn surface down there.  The thighs, the tendons, the dips and softness.  Fat, rough licks in the corner of your leg; long, deep dips into the warm, dark creases.  He even sucks the folds into his mouth, as if to have an oyster, and your goosebumps have fled, the water practically steamed off your fast-heating skin.

Dean nuzzles in to find your clitoris, and it makes you grab at his hair and gasp, bending your legs under his arms as you swim again.

“Damn, I love this.”

“Oh… sh-t… what’s that?”

He spends some more time making you squeak and whine, holding you still until he can feel you shudder, too, before crawling up your panting body and leaning over you on his elbows.  “I’ve been with women who didn’t really care for that,” he explains, “wouldn’t say anythin’, or whatever.  Just listening to you then… well.”  You’ve calmed down a bit now, and his hair’s all dry and tufty.  “I’m just lookin’ forward to hearing more.”

“Me too,” you sigh. “…um. It does kinda…” You tick-tock your head, raise your eyebrows, but he’s not picking up the hint.  “Make me want more.”

“Oh really?” He smiles at you so sweetly, it feels like he’s thankful already.  “Help a guy out then?”

Dean planks over you, inviting you to get the protection on, so you get on the job as quick as your fingers will follow.  Then it’s a matter of maintaining your dignity while you tear open a sachet of lube and smear that where it belongs…

Then you’re swapping legs and organising angles and he’s watching his thumb press his cock down to find you before leaning forward enough to catch the heat.  With a long sigh out his nose, Dean looks at you, check again that you’re good to go, and you wrap a hand around his neck, nodding and pulling with your thighs.

He leans, not in stages, and not in one smooth thrust, but leans, slowly and steadily enough that you start to use your feet to pull his hips towards yours and get him inside.  And when he does, when his curly hair is grinding against yours, he groans long and warm, leaning his forehead on yours. “So hot.”

“Next time,” you tell him, trying to keep your voice straight.  “We should do this straight after getting out of the sea.  When the rest of us is all chilled.”

“Mmmm,” he nods, nosing into your hair.  “Awesome idea.”

“Have you really not done this before?”

Dean’s confused about why you would ask that right now.

“It’s just you’re so handsome,” you confess. “I’d imagine women all over you on these hens things.”

“Huh, yeah.”  Dean resettles himself on his elbows. “Sometimes if I’m the only guy out here, they can get a bit handsy.  Wish I’d brought my calendar-boy brother along to distract them.  I just take them back early.  They’re usually too drunk to notice.”

“Dean. It’s not ‘cause you’re the only guy here.” You roll your hips some and watch him blink long for it.

“Mmm, you are too smooth.  I’m suppose to be the one wooing you.”

“Can you wink?”

Dean smirks and cracks a wink that makes him grin.

“There you go, done.”

Now he grins even harder.  He plants his lips on yours and with one long pull and push and he’s groaning again, starting a slow, earnest rhythm.  It’s lovely, and teasing, the friction inside you making the nerves in your waist sing.  After a while, though, you want more.  He’s thick and pushing but you want something that slams and shoves.

So you encourage him to roll over, and he takes you with him, watching you settle your weight over his hips with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes.  With your hair curtained to one side, you lean over and kiss him and start to rock, pushing and quickening, feeling your fat bulge between his fingers.  

Then you feel them start to pull and slow you down. “I’m tryna make this good for you, y’know.  You keep on like that, I won’t last.”

“I don’t need to you last,” you mutter, kissing up the side of his neck and nibbling his earlobe.  You hear his breath break in his throat at the feel of your lips on his skin, so work your tonguey kisses over to his throat.  “I just…  maybe you could fuck me?”

“I will, be patient.”

So, you sit up and try to pull it back, practise some mindfulness, but your vaginafulness really isn’t interested.  Then his fingers have found your breasts again, and every time you rock you lean for it, making your hips roll inside the motion.  “Please Dean, a little more.”

“Sooner we’re done the sooner I have to give up this view.”

“Thought we agreed there’s gonna be dating?”

“Yeah, but you’re gonna be one of those not-until-the-third-date-girls,” he grumbles, then grabs your hips to hold you still and fuck himself upwards.

You gasp and rock forward, leaning your hands on his chest.

“And I’m gonna have to do three whole dates-” He fucks again, and you groan hungrily. “-knowin’ this is what’s waiting for me.” Again, he slams himself into you and you bite your lip for how achingly perfect it is.  “So, I need more than a postcard, okay?”

“Hokay.”

You can’t open your eyes any more; what’s behind them is like the sparkle of the sun on the sea, every time his cock finds the depth of you, and you just hold on and ride out how ridiculously good it feels.

Vaguely, you feel his hands adjust their place, and you spread your knees a little more.  Dean holds on tight and rams into you, puts himself right where it rings.  You throw your head up with an “AA-ha!” jaw dropped, brow furrowed and you straighten your arms and arch into him.  He thrusts again, and again, bumping you higher, your hips viced in his hands, and you can feel the curve of him hooking into you and knocking that soft spot every time.  You get louder and louder, unlike you have with anyone else, and he reaches up to lick and suck at a nipple.  Your voice tips into falsetto, pleading, feeling all your softness ringing like a bell at noon.

Dean leans back, plants his feet and slams into you like you ask.  You brace yourself for it, resting on your elbow so you can kiss him better.  He gets a hand between you and slips two fingers up either side of your clit, slippery but tight, drags them up, making you cry out again, then flicks the tip a few times.  It makes your knees clench his sides, your hands fist his hair and you start to tremble, almost convulsing in your lower belly.  Feeling your body react to him so wholly, he punches out a moan, and holds himself inside you, hugs your hips to his, and falls them back to the bed.  You reach down, placing a hand over his on your hip and pressing it, fingers wide and tight, and you both puff into each other.

“Oh my god!” you pant.  “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he pants back.  “Yeah, I’m good.  Just gonna…”

You kiss, he kisses back, then your hands join in, and you’re thanking each other with everything.  You pull back to look at him, cheeks ruddy, eyes shining, lips wet and plush.  He looks over you, too, cracking a sated smile from how happy you seem.

“I like you so much!” you tell him.

He laughs, rolls you both over, and leans his elbow while he takes some time to have a good long look at you like this.  “I like you a lot, too,” he says happily, still getting his breath. “Fucking, a lot.”  Then he kisses you again and you wrap your arms around him. (Your legs give it a red hot go, too.)  His hands feel lovely, stroking your back, and he kisses around your neck and jaw before resting beside you.

“Do you need to get back for anything today?” you ask him.

“I’ve got dinner with my brother and some friends, but that’s not for ages,” he says, stroking your skin.  “You wanna go for another swim?”

“Yes, in a bit.  That would be lovely.”

“Mmmm,” he says, low and warm as he watches his fingers trace over you.  “Wanna feel you against me in the water.”

“Yes, please.  This has been terribly romantic for a sordid day out.”

“I know.  I’m so embarrassed.”  He’s too languid to smile properly, too thoughtful. “Seriously though, it took me all of 5 seconds to know I’s gonna ask you out here today.”

You watch him look at you, then watch your own fingers trace his collar bone.  “That seems so brave.  How did you know I wouldn’t be a complete nut?”

“Work keeps me far too busy,” he says.  “I’m done missing out on people for just in case.”

…

When Dean leads you back along the gangplank, he’s ready for your sea legs to hit the pier,  his arm swooping around your waist when your knees give a bit on the hard ground.  He walks you back toward the carpark, taking your hand in his, thinking a while before he talks.  “So, tomorrow, if you change your mind about me being there, just say the word.  You set the scene, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’re meeting your friends, right?” You’ve gotten to the end of the pier, stopped by a white booth near all the signs. The car park is half empty now and Dean’s turned to face you.  “If you get here and they’re, I dunno, wanting a real girls-only thing, I don’t have to come along.  These are your besties, it’s their booking.  I’m optional on a Hen’s.”

You nod and try to think about all the ways that could go, how much you might want them to know, how much you’ll realistically share.

“You can decide tomorrow,” he assures.  “It’ll be easy for me to cover being here for admin, whatever.”

“Cleaning the other boat.”

“Yyyyyyeeuh there’s only one boat.”

You gasp grandly. “ _Lies.  Already_.”

“ _One day_ there’ll be another boat,” he insists.  “And I hope I get to take you out on that one, too.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll invite my parents on this cruise, too.”

“Ha!” Dean’s easy, relaxed, pulling out his phone and handing it to you.  “Prank yourself?”

It’s quickly done and handed back in seconds.  “Okay, I’ll have a think, but I’m probably going to want you to come along.  Even if we’re ‘still just flirting’.” You air-quote the phrase.

Dean’s smile pulls on him, fighting for a grin, and you curl your toes in your shoes about what that could look like, all that innuendo, all that lidded promise.  You have to look out across the cars and twist a foot around just to not take a bite.

He nudges you with his elbow. “Can we call it a first date?”

“No!”

“Gaddammit!”

You laugh without listening yourself, just joyous to be laughing because of a lovely guy like this.

It makes him beam and lean in for a kiss. “I have some admin stuff to do, get the boat ready for tomorrow.” He pecks your lips again.  “Can I call you?”

“Yes, please.”  You peck him back and pull yourself away towards the car, your uncontained delight lighting the way.  “Thank you for a perfect day.”

“Thank you for makin’ it perfect.”

And just because you don’t want to leave: “Bye Dean.”

“Bye Rose.”

He does call you later, after dinner, and you talk so late you’re both bleary for the next day’s drama.


End file.
